


too many cooks spoil the broth

by renlybardatheon (aheartcalledhome)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bad Cooking, Chaotic Tomfoolery, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21926059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aheartcalledhome/pseuds/renlybardatheon
Summary: raventube content pays the bills, especially when it's holiday themed, and luckily, the lannister-baratheon-connington-stark crew will always have more mistakes ready to fire onto the weirnet(the game of thrones sortedfood au no one ever wanted, but got anyway)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	too many cooks spoil the broth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [windorwhatever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/windorwhatever/gifts).



“Hello! I am Jaime and this is Tyrion!” Jaime grinned, looking far too self-satisfied given the fact that the video thumbnail had plastered the word fail over his face in loud, red capital letters. He flipped his blond hair away from his forehead, green eyes sparkling with mirth. “Thank you for suggesting all the themes and orders for us! You sent so many that we had to make a new Pass It On, for better or for worse.”

“Definitely for worse.” Tyrion cut in. In the right lighting, he resembled his older brother quite strongly. In this lighting, he simply looked dissatisfied and exhausted. “Absolutely for worse.”

“I promise we tried our best!” Jaime averted his eyes, tugging at the collar of his v-neck t-shirt. “It’s not so bad, really, if you think about it.”

“Some of us tried our best.” Tyrion corrected. “Heavy emphasis on the some, no emphasis on the us.”

“Ned is going to snap and kill us all someday.” Jaime said solemnly. “And when he does, the world will be a better place.”

* * *

“Are we ready?” Jon Connington asked, rubbing his hands together.

While he’d been thrilled to rope his old school friends into a Youtube cooking channel, over the years, he’d realized the great and terrible folly of putting the two least horrible Lannisters and the worst Baratheon on the same team for anything, regardless of how much their talents served the channel. The Pass It On format, originally a one off made as a joke, in which each of them had ten minutes to contribute to a dish, had grown far too popular far too quickly for them to control, and intentional failures had only made it even more of a fan favorite.

Now, he dreaded every Pass It On video they had to film.

“No.” Jaime piped up.

“I’ve never been ready for anything.” Tyrion added. “Born late, walked late, talked late—”

“Interesting, given the fact that you’ve literally never shut up since.” Robert rolled his eyes.

“I hate these videos.” Ned sighed. “I don’t know why we do them. We all know how it’s going to end.”

“With you crying like a little girl?” Tyrion challenged.

“With your neck broken, Lannister.” Ned hissed.

Tyrion retorted with a hand gesture that they'd have to blur in post, earning whoops of laughter from Robert.

“Theme, please?” Jaime yelled, hoping to drown out the others.

“Today, your theme is dessert.” The voiceover, named Janice, said.

“We can do that.” Jaime said. “We can.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “We’ve got… ideas, haven’t we? At least one of us has got to have a single idea.”

The silence that ensued was louder than any noise could have been, and once, Robert had tried to blow through a horn he'd claimed would call dragons right into a microphone.

“We can’t.” Ned grimaced. “I guarantee it.”

“The order?” Jon, growing impatient, asked.

“The order is tallest to smallest.” Janice’s voice struck fear in all of their hearts as they shuffled about, Robert shoving Jaime to the head of the line. Jaime, to his credit, looked mortified. “Jaime, then Robert, then Ned, then Jon, and last, but not least, Tyrion.”

Tyrion bowed gracefully. “Always glad to be of service.”

“I’m going to cry on camera.” Jaime whispered, unfortunately just loud enough to be overheard. “All these years of trying to suck the moisture back into my head and now’s when it’s going to happen.”

“At least Ned’s in the middle.” Jon pointed out, trying to make the best of a terrible situation. “And I go right after, so we’ll be able to fix whatever you lot do.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.” Tyrion deadpanned. “Murphy’s Law incoming, lads. Take cover.”

“One at a time, the boys have ten minutes to cook and add to a final dish. The remaining team will have no idea what is happening behind them until it is their turn.”

“This is devastating.” Ned looked straight into the camera. “I hate that I’m a part of this.”

* * *

“I hate sweets.” Jaime said. “But I’m going first, so I’m just going to make a fruit compote, which is just… fruit with sugar on it, I think. They’ve said I can’t use the internet, so what I’m going to do is put a pot on the stove, dump some—some mashed up kiwis in it with some sugar and call it a good ten minutes. Stir it occasionally and whatever.” He paused for a moment, frowning. “Maybe I should put some chocolate in it. People like chocolate in desserts, don’t they? Yes, let’s do that. Chocolate.”

“Does chocolate go with kiwis? Is that right?” He scratched his head. “Can you give me a hint? Tell me anything? Seven above, what’s the point of having people operate the cameras if they won’t help you cheat?”

He stopped in his tracks halfway to the fridge, looking awfully like a startled animal. “What if I make cookies? What if I—cookies are a dessert, aren’t they? They’re simple, they’re yummy, maybe Robert won’t—” He tugged at his hair, exasperated. “Seven hells, what time is it?”

“Five minutes!” He groaned. “I’ve wasted five minutes just having a chat with the camera! I’ll—Shit, I’ll just cut some fruit.” He ran to the table, grabbed a few random fruits, and cut them up as fast as he could. He screamed at the ceiling, wasting a further thirty seconds, before sighing. “I’m scared. Can I say that? I’m very scared. This is all very intense." He let out a low, keening groan. "I don’t know if I can keep up. Maybe I should just do something… creative.”

A spark entered Jaime’s eyes that everyone hadn’t quite feared enough, the first time they’d seen it.

“Yeah, creative stuff, what can I do…” He looked over his shoulder at the clock, which now read two minutes, thirty-nine seconds remaining. “I’ll make an egg!”

“Jaime, this is a dessert.” The cameraman hissed. “It doesn’t need an egg.”

“Eggs are good.” Jaime sounded rather confused. “I’ll just eat it, maybe, then they don’t have to put it in the dessert.” He crossed his arms, smiling, before something occurred to him. “Wait! Chocolate! I said I’d do chocolate!” He chopped up a bar of chocolate he’d grabbed off the table and then forgotten about, tossing the pieces in a glass bowl and shoving the bowl into the microwave with thirty seconds remaining, jumping up and down like a jack in the box while the seconds ticked down.

With one second remaining, the microwave dinged, and Jaime nearly burnt his hands trying to pick the glass bowl up, cursing a blue streak as his ten minutes ran out.

“Scoring myself?” He asked the cameraman, as if he hadn’t done several of these videos before. “Well, I’d give myself a six point two, seeing as I cut fruit and melted chocolate. I opened up directions for people to go in. I made us versatile, see? I made us agile.”

He sauntered over to the row of chairs behind the cooking area, and tapped Robert Baratheon on the shoulder. Robert startled, pulling his headphones off and scrambling to his feet like he expected a fight.

“It’s your go, mate.” Jaime patted his shoulder. “Best of luck.”

“Why do we do this to ourselves?” Robert groused, before throwing his headphones at Jaime, who luckily caught them. “This is workplace abuse.”

* * *

“Let’s make a pastry.” Robert said. “Jaime’s… Jaime’s made shitty jam, so that could go in one of these, right?” He vigorously slapped a plastic package of precut puff pastry sitting beside him. “Yeah, let’s do that. That feels creative.” He peeled the plastic backing off, laying out a sheet of dough on the cutting board. “Jaime’s jam’s cooling off still, so what do I do? I can, uh, well, I can preheat the oven, can’t I? Good on you, Rob. Let’s preheat the oven.”

The oven beeped threateningly at Robert as he pressed an array of buttons, only some of which made sense for the task at hand, but eventually he leaned back on his heels with a grin that made him look rather like his brother Renly.

“That’s a job well done.” Robert preened. “Oven preheated, excellent.”

He cut the sheet of dough into four squares before placing his hand directly on the side of the bowl he’d poured Jaime’s contribution into.

“Still a little warm.” Robert said, cheeks having gone pink.

“Did you burn yourself?” The cameraman asked.

“Absolutely not!” Robert scowled. “I did not burn myself and fuck you for asking.” He knocked a smaller glass bowl onto the floor and nearly shrieked in surprise before crouching down out of view of the camera. “What’s this, then?” The sound of lips smacking followed. “Oh, it’s chocolate. Why’s it on the floor?”

He lifted the bowl up, spinning it this way and that as if the chocolate within it was the key to some great mystery. “What was this supposed to be for… What was this going to be for…” He shrugged. “I’ll leave it on the table. That sounds like a Ned shaped problem.” He slammed the bowl down far too indelicately on the countertop. “I’ve done enough, I think. My job’s done. No, wait, I haven’t put the jam in yet.” 

“Are you going to touch the bowl again?”

“No.” Robert said, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“Do you want to?”

“No!” Robert scowled, though he looked to be barely restraining himself from doing so. “I’m not a child, I don’t go round touching every hot thing I see.”

He spun round and round on a stool for a few more minutes, humming some tune off-key, cracking jokes that weren’t nearly as funny as he thought they were, under the guise of waiting for bowl to cool. When it did, he dumped out portions of the jam into each sheet, and crimped the edges shut with a fork, sprinkling some sugar on top of each pastry in a sad attempt at fanciness.

“I’ll give myself a six point seven. I made something for Ned to throw in the oven. That’s more than good enough.” Robert adjusted his collar, smiling devilishly. “More than Jaime did, at any rate. What was that jam, a two?”

* * *

“I don’t even want to know what they’ve done.” Ned looked to have worked himself up into an anxiety attack in the twenty minutes he’d spent waiting for his turn, face flushed and shimmering with sweat even before he’d started. “I don’t even want to know. I have to, though. I have to know what they did.” He ran a hand through his greasy hair, a deep, shuddering breath wrenching its way out of his lungs. “I have to know what those clowns did—”

“Oh.” Ned stopped in front of the turnovers just as the oven dinged, signaling that it was ready for them to go in. He beat an egg, wiping his forehead frequently with his sleeve, and brushed it over the tops of the turnovers, sprinkling extra sugar on top for good measure. “So these will need about twenty-five minutes at the temperature Robert’s picked, so they’ll need to come out midway through Tyrion’s turn. So let’s leave a timer out, maybe? I don’t know if that’s allowed, but I’m doing it. I’m doing it. I’m not letting the fate of this rest on Tyrion Lannister’s good sense, that’s for sure.”

Ned let out a keening whimper as he fiddled with the timer setting on the oven, hands shaking. “Why are they always testing me? I just—I just want to—” He squeezed his eyes shut. “These idiots are going to be the death of me.” He carefully placed the turnovers, on their baking tray, into the oven. “Now what do I do? I’ve—I’ve put the damned things in the oven, now what?”

“Do you need a paper bag, Ned?” The cameraman asked. “You okay?”

“I’m never okay.” Ned said gloomily, reminiscent of a stormcloud. “Let’s make whipped cream.” He retrieved a large bowl, into which he poured sugar and whipping cream, and attacked it with a hand mixer. “I’m looking for peaks.” He said with a sigh. “I’m fine. You know what? Let’s talk about something else. My son Robb, he’s walking now. Isn’t that a wonder? Running around the house at all hours, little Robb. Likes to sing while he runs too. I wish I had that kind of lung capacity. Youth. It’s wasted on the young.”

“How do you keep him and Robert Baratheon straight?” The cameraman asked. “Your Robb’s named after him, isn’t he?”

“One’s Big Robb, the other’s Little Robb, though Cat won’t call Robert Baratheon anything but his full name.” Ned snorted. “Time check?”

“Five minutes left.” 

“So I’ll have just enough time to get this to soft peaks, and then Jon can finish up the whipped cream. I’d almost forgotten Jon was up next.” A smile spread across Ned’s face, making him look far younger than his years. “Jon’s going after me. Not Tyrion. I can-- I can leave things half done, and he’ll finish them. He’ll know what I’m planning.” He looked beyond relieved. “I won’t have to leave any-- any cryptic signs or signals or-- I had to write a message in flour once, for Jaime. I can just leave it for Jon. I can just leave it.”

“You’ve got confidence in Jon?” The cameraman asked.

“We don’t often agree, but Jon’s skills are undeniable.” Ned nodded, his solemnity returning. “He’s clever and he’s good at what he does. It’s not like Robert or Jaime, where I’d have to wonder what they’d do if i left whipped cream and melted chocolate next to each other. With Jon, I know it’s going to become a chocolate whipped cream. With Jaime… I don’t even want to think about it.”

He pulled the hand mixer from the bowl, smiling as peaks formed in the bowl. “That’s a job well done.” The timer beeped. “Oh, and that’s time. That wasn’t so bad.” Ned nearly dropped the mixer back into the bowl. “Oh. That’d have ruined the whole thing. Oh no.”

“How are you rating yourself?”

“I think I’d give myself a two.” Ned nodded slowly. “I put something in the oven and I made whipped cream. I don’t think that’s as much as I think it is, but I’m sure I’m about to be unpleasantly surprised.”

“Who do you think’s rated themselves highest so far?”

“Robert.” Ned said with confidence. “Undoubtedly Robert. And he didn’t do anything to earn it, I can tell you that much.” He trudged over to Jon Connington’s seat, delicately shaking his shoulder to get his attention. “Go on then, Jon.” Ned sighed. “Break a leg.”

“I hope I do.” Jon shook his head. “Then I won’t be complicit in whatever war crime you’ve all cooked up.”

* * *

“I’ve got a task list.” Jon said. “Now that I’ve seen what Ned’s done. I imagine Jaime tried and Robert didn’t, and that’s why we’ve got… whatever those misshapen lumps in the oven are. They don’t seem to have much color on them, so let’s leave them in for Tyrion to take out.” He nearly knocked over the timer as he turned to collect his materials. “Oh! There’s a timer! That has to be Ned’s doing. Well done, Ned. And it does match up, yes, that’d be midway through Tyrion’s turn.”

“These bowls appear to hold… that looks like a whipped cream, and here’s some melted chocolate, so I’m probably just finishing that off. And, oh, I can make a glaze for the pastries, that’ll be nice. Then it’ll just be up to Tyrion to put those things together. The key is not leaving him any space to innovate. That’s when things go wrong, with the Lannister brothers, but here we are, with each of them at an end.” Jon shuddered. “The devil works hard, but the Lannisters work harder.”

“So I put a third of the whipped cream into the chocolate…” He scooped a large blob out of the bowl of whipped cream and shook it off the spatula into the other rather indelicately. “And mix it, then pour everything back into the other bowl and mix it again. Easy as pie. That’s a chocolate whipped cream.”

“Next, let’s make the cinnamon glaze.” Jon retrieved another bowl from the cabinets below the counter. “Two cups of powdered sugar, a quarter cup of milk, and a half teaspoon of cinnamon’s the standard recipe, but I’ll add a dash of cloves as well, to mix it up a bit.”

He measured each ingredient out into the bowl, starting with the sugar and spices and then cleaning out the measuring cup using the milk. 

“There we go. Now it’s just a matter of mixing it up until smooth.” He rolled up his sleeves before whisking the mixture rather aggressively. “How much time have I got? Just a few minutes? Not a problem, not a problem. We’re set up for success, despite all that came before us. Well, at least we’re trying. This might even be edible.”

The timer rang, and Jon stepped away from the glaze, a beatific smile on his face. 

“Oh, yes.” Jon nodded slowly. “I think Ned and I might’ve saved this. I’m giving myself a seven for productivity.”

* * *

“They always put me in charge of plating, when they can, and I’m not one to argue about it. I know where I’m best used.” Tyrion sprinkled sugar delicately over the plate. “I’m a man who appreciates aesthetics. You eat first with your eyes, not your mouth. That is a fancy way of saying I’m just going to artistically spill things all over Ned’s hard work.” He carefully arranged berries around the pastries, alternating colors. “Look at that.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “Beautiful. Art beyond imagination.”

“It’s been five minutes already, Tyrion.” The eggshell timer that Ned had set up screamed in defiance. “Might want to start thinking about finishing touches.”

“Should probably check the oven, shouldn’t I?” Tyrion said. “Take whatever’s in there out.” Where are the oven gloves again?” He bustled around the kitchen, not noticing that some kind soul had set them directly beside the oven, so as not to inconvenience Tyrion too much. “It’s not as if I’m going to use my bare hands.”

“Oh, there they are!” He seemed to notice the gloves only upon his third round of the working space. “Excellent, excellent. Let’s let these cool until it’s time to serve, that sounds about right.” He slid the gloves on, opening the oven door to a rush of steam. “I’m glad I haven’t got glasses, that would’ve been ghastly.” He chuckled. “Here comes the tray, then.” He hoisted it up on the counter, just barely avoiding spilling its contents back on himself. “These can just sit until two minutes from the end, and so can I. Then I’ll glaze them, set them down in the middle of the plate, and it’ll be time for the sexies!”

In quick succession, once the two minute warning was announced, Tyrion’s plan unfolded near perfectly, even if several elements of the dish looked rather banged up when the cameras were turned onto it for closeups. He’d covered up most of the pastry with icing sugar, which did wonders for the visuals.

“I’m giving myself an eight. I did exactly what was expected. Not a thing more, not a thing less. And it looks perfectly fine, I think.”

* * *

“Oh!” Robert beamed, throwing an arm around Ned’s shoulders. “It looks great! Well done, Ned!”

Ned looked mortified to have his name associated with the dish in front of them, but nodded slowly, as if his head was being forced forward and back by invisible hammers pounding at his head.

“I had no idea what was going to happen to it, but it looks wonderful.” Jaime poked at it with a fork. “Looks cooked through, at any rate, that’s more than we can say for most things that come out of this kitchen. And Tyrion’s done a wonderful job, of course.”

“Is no one going to acknowledge me?”

“Quit fishing for compliments, Jon, it’s unseemly.” Jaime rolled his eyes. “Why’s Jon always wanting to be recognized? What did he do anyway?”

“Does it matter?” Tyrion shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s not bad, for fifty minutes.” Ned piped up. “That’s all I have to say about it.” He heaved a sigh. “Let’s eat it before we make ourselves feel too good.” 

The boys each cut off a part of the pastry, some thoughtfully dipping it into the whipped cream before eating it. Jon, pretending to be somewhat health conscious, popped a berry into his mouth as an afterthought.

“Not awful.” Ned mumbled through a mouthful of pastry.

“That’s as close to ‘perfect’ as you’ll get from Ned.” Jaime said. “I think that means we pass.”

“We’ve got to do scores first.” Robert pointed out. “So Jaime, what did you put on the plate?”

“I gave myself a six point two, for the kiwi compote and the melted chocolate that I’m thinking might’ve gone in the whipped cream, there. I think that’s quite reasonable, given that no one expected me to do anything.” Jaime grinned, despite the series of nods around the table. “I set us off to a good start.”

“I gave myself a six point seven. Wrapped the jam in pastry and put it in the oven. Without me, we wouldn’t even have a dish!” Robert beat his chest with a fist, ignoring the dour look on Ned’s face. “That’s fair to me, I think.”

“You rolled out some premade pastry, claimed credit for Jaime and Ned’s ten minutes, and gave yourself half a point more than Jaime for it.” Jon grimaced. “Unbelievable, Baratheon. Low, even for you.”

“I was disappointed by my performance. I spent most of my ten minutes talking about Robb, really.” Ned said. 

“That’s a good ten minutes, I’d say.” Robert, who clearly thought Ned was speaking about him, shrugged. “I’m an excellent conversation topic.”

“I meant my son, Robert.” Ned said calmly, as Robert’s eyes widened in shock. “I gave myself a two. I put something in the oven and I started whipped cream. That seemed fair.”

“Robert gave himself a six point seven for less.” Jon pointed out. “I don’t think a two is fair.”

“How much did you give yourself then, Connington?” Robert challenged, looking like a petulant toddler.

“A seven, for finishing Ned’s whipped cream, making the glaze for the pastries, and setting Tyrion up for success.” Jon rubbed his hands together. “There wasn’t much I could do, really, with the pastries still baking.”

“I gave myself an eight for artistry.” Tyrion said. “I’m the reason this was worth looking at in the first place. You should’ve seen the state these left the oven in.” He shuddered. “I couldn’t bear to look at it.”

“Was it so bad?” Jaime sounded rather affronted.

“Of course not.” Tyrion scoffed. “You did a perfect job.”

“Oh.” Jaime, who seemed to have momentarily forgotten he had nothing to do with the appearance of the pastry, just its contents, looked relieved. “That’s good, then.”

“Pass or fail?” The cameraman asked.

“Pass.” Jaime nodded. “That’s a dessert, for sure.”

“Pass.” Robert agreed. “It tastes good. I’d make it again on purpose.”

“Pass.” Ned said reluctantly. “It is a dessert. It did taste reasonable. We did utilize the time somewhat efficiently, therefore--”

“Pass.” Jon said. “Ned’s said what I wanted to say, anyhow.”

“I think we did splendidly.” Tyrion said. “Definitely a pass. Five for five. Well done, lads.”

* * *

“If you enjoyed that, please like this video and subscribe to our channel.” Jaime said brightly, before throwing an orange at someone off camera. Judging by the loud complaints it evoked, the orange had hit Robert. “Even if it’s motivated by pity. We like pity. It pays the bills.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoy any part of this, please check out sortedfood on youtube. they're basically real people doing this, except they're much better at cooking than any of these clowns will ever be


End file.
